Giving thanks
by Martine Brooke
Summary: It's Thanksgiving. Eight weeks a prisoner of the island, Abby isn't feeling very thankful. Captivity-verse.


In 2008, Thanksgiving was held on Thursday 27th November.

* * *

_I'm alive. I could be dead. That's not so bad._

It was what she said to herself every morning before she opened her eyes and saw the face of the man who now shared her bed. Given the occasion and how sickeningly nervous she was, it felt only right to repeat it now.

"I'm thankful that I'm alive."

_There. One._

"I'm thankful that I'm healthy."

_Two._It wasn't completely true but that was another issue for another time and the only thing that scared her more than dealing with the issue if her suspicions were correct was the idea of how Henry would react if she were wrong. He had a violent temper and she could still remember what she had looked like with a fading bruise on one side of her face and a blacked eye on the other, lying to herself for days that her dignity was more important than her health and that Henry would eventually give up. She'd been wrong on both counts. Despite his protestations, she could tell that he struggled with that promise just as much as she struggled with some of hers and never wanted to give him cause to hit her again.

_Three? There's got to be an easy third one._

"I'm thankful that..." she whispered before trailing off. She swallowed hard and decided to take care of what she looked like first. Then she'd work out what she could say when she sat down for dinner. They normally cooked together but it was obvious that he saw tonight's meal as a date and that scared her.

Standing in front of the mirror in their bedroom, she walked a tight circle as the moisturiser on her body dried, examining herself critically as she moved. She looked decent enough but it reminded her far too much of the first time she'd stepped out of the shower in this house and she wanted to get dressed as quickly as possible. Her leg muscles ached hellishly but there were no obvious bruises on her body and, as expected, no hairs were coming through either. Waxing herself was painful and she was oddly grateful for his very specific instructions about where she wasn't allowed to remove hair. He didn't permit her a razor, which at least meant that _that_ question was out of her hands.

Suicide used to be an attractive option. Just to die. Just to not wake up and spend a dozen or so hours smiling and telling Henry how much she loved him and playing along with his fantasy life. Just to sleep. The problem was that she couldn't. He simply didn't give her any options. In those first few awful days, there was nothing in the second bedroom to stab or cut herself with, nothing she could hang herself from, no pills she could take. He gave her nothing but water and starving to death would have taken a good three weeks. She'd cracked after five days. After she had the freedom of the house, she just hadn't wanted to anymore. She hadn't wanted to do anything that involved a final conscious choice. It was so easy to take the path of least resistance. Not that he ever left her alone long enough to do any damage to herself.

_And how could I kill myself knowing there might be a life growing inside me?_

She carefully pulled on black panties, trying not to apply any pressure to the stitches she'd put in each side. He enjoyed tearing them off her but also enjoyed seeing her in those particular ones so she would sit down with a needle and some black thread and sew up the sides. She really hoped what he called their "honeymoon" would end soon. She used to have a matching bra but, in punishment for some transgression she couldn't even remember, he'd taken a knife and slid it, blunt edge against her skin, under the material holding the cups together and sliced it through. In the past seven weeks and two days, it was the nearest she'd been to tears in front of him.

He had sent her upstairs, away from the kitchen, with instructions to make herself beautiful for him tonight. "The red dress," he'd said. "The one you wore on your first evening at the Candlewick." She had smiled and held in the tears of rage and despair at the memory until she was under the hot water and he couldn't hear her. He wouldn't see her cry again ever. _Ever. Ever. Ever._

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she checked her nails for non-existent chips in the polish and continued her list.

"I'm thankful that I live in a lovely home. I'm thankful that you give me food and water and warm clothing. I'm thankful that we go out together. I'm thankful that you don't hit me. I'm thankful that you've given me my own room and my books. I'm thankful that I have a little privacy. I'm thankful that..."

_Well, that's some more._

She lifted the dress over her head and zipped herself in awkwardly. It didn't feel tight, although given the weight she'd lost in her first few days in this house, that didn't mean anything. It was sixty-four days and counting according to the calendar since she'd finished her last period. She knew she wouldn't be able to hide it from him for long. Henry was sharp and nigh-impossible to fool; he was going to realise she wasn't menstruating soon. He knew every part of her almost as well as she did and she'd long given up imagining that her body belonged solely to her. She had her mind though and that he couldn't take.

_What's he going to think?_

She didn't have a clue. After eight weeks of spending every waking hour with the real Henry Dunn – Henry Wakefield – she thought she knew what he liked and how to keep him good tempered. He liked sex, lots of it. He liked cuddling her in bed. He liked telling her awful stories about people he'd murdered and how much he loved her. He liked her to tell him that she loved him. He liked kissing her for hours without getting bored. He liked to walk up to her when she was reading or doing some chore or just staring into space and wrap his arms around her because, in his own words, he needed to touch her. He liked fishing with her and demonstrating the quickest way to kill their food. He liked making long term plans for their "marriage", for the house, for what they'd do next spring and summer when the weather was hot. But she'd never heard him mention children or factor in the possibility of pregnancy. He'd never given her the option of contraception and, having resigned herself to leaving all the decisions to her new "husband", it had never crossed her mind.

_Does he want children? Does he have a little fantasy of us raising our own family here? This can't really be happening. It's not real. I can't be__–__Dear god, he's my half-brother – can we even have children together? Healthy children? What are our chances? What if he wants it to be just the two of us and thinks I've done it deliberately? Would he blame me? What if – would he make me have an abortion? Where on earth would he take me anyway? I'd die giving birth here. He must have some kind of emergency plans._

Looking again in the mirror, she jumped, realising that the door was open and he was standing in the doorway admiring her. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach, clawing and tearing at the sides. He had odd moods. She had always been used to his temper but clearly the real Henry was far more unstable than she'd known and she could no longer put any distance between herself and his rages. Still, when she was good, when she gave him everything he asked for, when she never did any of the little things he complained about, he treated her like a besotted boyfriend would. He was all smiles now, his eyes lit up at the sight of her making an effort, and the panic subsided. The butterflies settled, chattering in a reminder to her that they could always take flight again. He'd dressed up too, in a dark blue shirt and tie, and was looking straight through her dress.

"Hey. Ready?" he asked, walking forward to stand behind her.

Her cheeks ached as she forced a smile and mumbled something as she slipped low-heeled black shoes on. _I'm thankful that you choose practical outfits for me to wear. I'm thankful that you make an effort to be pleasant to live with._

"If you could give me a minute, please Henry," she said, standing and checking that her hair wasn't out of place. He normally told her to wear it down as he liked to play with it but tonight she was wearing it up, with a loose strand on each side. She actually liked brushing it through with her wooden hairbrush. It was soothing and she took a slight pleasure in seeing the words on the flat side. It was the one and only time she'd ever got one-up on him and she didn't dare try anything like it again. While she'd spent the hours before her "wedding" being fed and bathed by him and being shown around her new home, the morning of the second she'd felt a bit more human. So she'd painted the words "Abby Dunn" on the back of her hairbrush in nail polish. He couldn't point out that he was Henry Wakefield and she, by extension, was Abby Wakefield without rejecting her first romantic gesture. She always wore her mother's necklace too in a little unspoken reminder of why he shouldn't love her, but that was more something she refused to stop doing rather than something she'd actively done. And the idea of marrying his sister clearly didn't bother him in the slightest. She fixed the necklace now, sprayed perfume onto her wrists and turned to look at him.

"You look lovely," he whispered in appreciation, one hand holding the top of her left arm and the other twirling a strand of hair and his eyes burning into hers. _We have the same coloured eyes._

"So do – " she started to lie before he kissed her softly, his breath warm and moist against her, briefly nibbling at her top lip. His hand moved round to the back of her head as his lips pressed hard against her mouth. She froze in shock, then closed her eyes tightly and moved her lips against his. He tasted like wine and this on top of her nerves made her want to vomit. She was too tired to come up with a reason that his tongue shouldn't be inside her mouth, flicking against hers and leaving a thin film of saliva across everything it touched. Hoping he couldn't taste the bile in the back of her throat, she tried to bring her own tongue out of its paralysis. One hand on the back of her neck then tilted her head back as he thankfully removed his tongue and unthankfully attacked her neck. She couldn't tell if the warm wet feeling on her skin was him kissing or licking her and didn't really want to know. His other arm wrapped tightly around her back and crushed her body into his, with his right knee gently parting hers.

_Oh no, not now Henry, please. I can't do this. No, I can do this. I can do this. I can do this._

Sex with her brother and captor still disgusted her but she wouldn't feel humiliated anymore. He called it making love; she had other names for what he did, but could convince herself that being his wife was the least-worst option. It was the only reasonable option he'd given her. Some days it was easier than others, but on the bad days her best way of coping was to pretend it wasn't happening, or it was happening but to someone else. She would simply stare upwards or away from him or close her eyes and wait for him to finish. Of course, this didn't fool him for a second and he'd get angry and deal out the arbitrary punishment of the day and she'd be straight back to returning his kisses and telling him how amazing this felt and screaming "Henry!" and whatever else he told her to do. He was virtually inexhaustible, very demanding and rarely gave her any warning before he'd jump her. She wondered if she could convince him that blindfolding her would be fun and exciting so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes.

She whimpered deliberately as she felt his teeth on her neck, hoping it would wake him out of whatever fever he was in. On the good days, he could elicit real moans from her but she mostly faked the gasps and cries that he adored so much. _Please let's just have dinner now, Henry._

Waiting for him to make his mind up whether he was going to bring her downstairs and feed her dinner or throw her onto the bed and hike her dress up, she opened her eyes and tried to take in what was going on around her. Their bedroom. A photo of them in a frame on the table, happy in a happier time. Blue curtains pulled across because it was night time and Henry didn't want lights visible. Blue and white bedlinen, straightened and tucked in by her in a vague attempt to make the room look decent. Her patchwork throw stolen from her bedroom, another relic of her childhood that he'd desecrated. The house was warm, as it always was, and the inviting smell of his cooking permeated the air. _I'm thankful that you're a good cook. I'm thankful that we have an unlimited supply of firewood. I'm thankful that you have a romantic side._

"Henry, the food will be getting cold!"

He let go of her and she stumbled backwards against the mirror before he caught her wrist and yanked her back to her feet. It hurt and she'd have a bruise there in the morning but she smiled at him nonetheless.

As he led her out of their bedroom and down the stairs, she thought back to the main issue and decided she was being silly. _Of course I'm not pregnant. It's just the stress. My period will probably kick in tonight and I'll have a hard time getting blood out of the bed sheets. I can't tell him. I won't tell him anything before this month ends, at the very earliest._

The sight of the dining room induced a genuine gasp from her. It was dark outside and the only sources of light were a low fire in the grate and a large white candle in the centre of the table that spilled shadows across room, making it look almost cosy. Next to it was a small roasted turkey and a jug of gravy, plates at both settings with potatoes and a few other vegetables and a bottle of red wine, its top opened. Two glasses were next to each plate, one already filled with water. Everything on the counter tops had been cleared away: washing up piled neatly next to the sink for whichever of them washed up, food waste in the bin, miscellaneous objects put away. And to her astonishment, a bunch of pink roses sat in a white vase by the window. _Where did they come from?_

"You like it?" he asked nervously, clearly oblivious to the fact that there was only one answer she could give. She smiled and told him it was perfect.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her mouth, then led her to the place that didn't have the carving knife next to it. She couldn't remember the last time she'd picked up a knife. She was beginning to forget the last time she'd done a lot of things that she used to take for granted, like going outside unescorted. She let out a small strained giggle at the realisation that he was very good at carving up meat for her, then felt sick at the poor taste of the joke. Carving up her friends was how he'd managed to confine her there and it was what Henry Wakefield liked to do for fun. She'd lose it completely if she focused on his murders for too long. She tried not to think about them at all most of the time. He looked at her bemused but didn't ask. The smiles were still there, on both their faces, as she sat down.

He took up the knife and caught her eye.

"What are you thankful for, Abby?"

* * *

The awkwardness of this idea was loosely inspired by the scene in Dexter season 4 where everyone sits down for Thanksgiving dinner but no one is thankful for anything. Unlike the scene in Dexter, this doesn't end in a punch-up.

Same AU as Victory, Defeat, Snowball, Gifts, Acquiesce and Flowers.


End file.
